Holy Warrior

by Angus Donald

  Robin’s counting house, the treasury where he kept his silver was a low, strongly built structure next to the hall. I knocked on the door and was called in and I found Robin seated in front of a large table covered with a chequered cloth of black and white squares, on which he used to reckon his accounts. Coloured pebbles were placed on various squares of the cloth, tokens that represented different amounts of money. The room was dim, the narrow windows not permitting much light, and Robin had a candle on the table in front of him. He looked half-furious, half-puzzled and was alternately peering at a sheaf of parchments gripped in one fist and glaring at the pebbles on the chequered cloth.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘This can’t be right... I wish Hugh was here to deal with this ...’ and then he stopped abruptly as if he had bitten his tongue.

  I knew why: Hugh, his older brother, had at one time been his chief lieutenant, chancellor and spy master and had controlled the money for Robin’s band when they had been outlaws. But Hugh was now dead.

  Robin threw down the parchments on the table in disgust. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of this,’ he said, ‘but I can show you in a much more simple way why we have a big problem. Go to the big coffer yonder and open it.’

  On the far side of the room was a huge iron-bound chest. In more carefree days, it had contained Robin’s hoard of silver; the river of money that flowed from robbing wealthy travellers in Sherwood, or which had been paid to Robin by villages seeking his protection, or offered as tribute by friends, rivals, even enemies, seeking his justice - the silver river had flowed into that huge, oak-and-iron bound box, filling it to the brim.

  I hesitated - in our outlaw days, to touch the coffer was an offence punishable by death. ‘Go on,’ said Robin with a touch of irritation, as he saw me pausing, ‘just open it. You have my full permission.’

  I turned the key in the lock, with some difficulty, and slid back the locking bar. Then I pushed up the heavy oak lid of the box. I looked inside: the coffer was empty, apart from a handful of silver pennies that winked at me from the bottom of the wooden space. The money was gone.

  Chapter Three

  I looked at Robin aghast. ‘It’s been stolen,’ I blurted. ‘Who would dare? And how could they ...’

  ‘It hasn’t been stolen, Alan, at least I don’t think so,’ interrupted Robin, ‘it has been spent. By me. I handed over an earl’s ransom - quite literally - to arrange our pardons and outfitting this company for war in Outremer has not been cheap. The Locksley rents are mostly paid in kind, and with an army to feed ... No, Alan, I have simply spent more than I should have. So, we have a problem. The King bids us join him in Lyons with all our forces in July - that’s what his letter said - and I have to transport four hundred men-at-arms, and two hundred horses, as well as a mountain of equipment, food, weapons and forage to France. And though the King has promised to recompense me for providing battle-ready men, I have yet to see any of his silver, and if I know royalty, I won’t see any before we parade inside the broken gates of Jerusalem.’ He paused, thinking for a moment. Then he said: ‘We need the Jews, Alan; we need Reuben.’

  An hour later, Robin and myself were on the road, our horses’ noses pointing north towards York. We rode fast, just the two of us, unaccompanied by any of Robin’s men. This was unusual behaviour for a great man, and not a little dangerous, too: Robin had plenty of enemies between Sheffield and York who would be pleased to have him fall into their hands. Although he was no longer an outlaw, with the King abroad he could have been held for ransom by any avaricious baron; and then there was the matter of Murdac’s price on his head.

  ‘I don’t want to be bothered with a long train of servants and men-at-arms,’ said Robin when I raised my concerns about him travelling without protection. ‘And, besides, I’m taking you along to look after me,’ he grinned. ‘Are you not up to the job?’ I frowned at him. I knew why he wanted to travel light; he didn’t want anyone to know that he was short of money. He planned to visit Reuben, an old and trusted friend, arrange to borrow a large quantity of cash from the Jews of York, and be back in Kirkton in a couple of days. ‘Come on, Alan. We’ll travel in plain, ordinary clothes, a couple of pilgrims, but well armed and moving fast - no pomp, no fanfare, it’ll be just like the old days, we’ll have some fun ...’

  And it was fun. I rarely got to spend time alone with Robin these days, and while I was still very slightly afraid of him - I never forgot that among other heinous crimes he had condoned the murder of his own brother - I always relished his company. And we were well armed: both of us in mail coats, Robin with his war bow and arrow bag, and a fine sword, myself with my old sword and poniard. I also wore my new sky blue embroidered hood, but that was only to annoy Robin and show him that, while I’d always be his loyal man, I cared not a fig for his hidebound ideas about headwear.

  We pushed our horses hard for several hours and then, as night began to fall, we bivouacked in a small wood not far from Pontefract Castle. That great castle was held by Roger de Lacy, the new Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, and we could have received a welcome worthy of an Earl in his stone hall, had we chosen; but Robin wanted to keep his journey secret; and I was happy for as few people as possible to know that Robin was roaming the countryside with only one armed retainer. I think too, in hindsight, that Robin occasionally found the trappings of his earldom a heavy burden and he longed for a return to the simple life of an outlaw; although he had never yet actually voiced this feeling to me.

  Robin had brought cold roast beef, typically ignoring the fact that it was Lent, in fact, only five days away from Easter Sunday, and according to Church law we were supposed to be eschewing meat of any kind. He also brought bread, onions and a skin of wine and we made a cheerful camp with a small fire under a great spreading oak. And after we’d eaten, as the sparks danced above the fire, we wrapped ourselves in our warm green cloaks and sat cross-legged around the cheerful blaze, with our weapons close at hand. Robin took a long pull from the half-full wine skin before passing it to me. I drank deeply and passed it back.

  ‘Do you think Murdac actually has a hundred pounds of German silver?’ I asked him, wiping my mouth.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Every man within a hundred miles will have heard of the offer by now; and half of them will be thinking of how they can claim it. It was a very good move on his part. I salute the slimy little bastard,’ Robin lifted the wine skin towards the fire and took another long drink.

  ‘I had him once, you know,’ he said. ‘I had his life in the palm of my hand, and I let him go. Foolish of me; I should have killed him there and then. And I wouldn’t have this problem now. I could have avoided a lot of trouble if I had just snuffed him out there and then.’ He brought his forefinger and thumb together with a soft snap. ‘But I felt pity for him. I say pity, but it was merely weakness, in truth. He begged for his life on his knees and I couldn’t kill him. Sheer bloody weakness - arrogance, too. But then no man can see the future.’ He sighed and drank again.

  ‘When was this?’ I asked.

  ‘Here, take this; I’ve had enough,’ said Robin passing me the wine skin. He never drank to excess but I sensed that, that night, he might have wanted to. I took a small drink myself and kept quiet.

  ‘It was about seven, eight years ago, long before you joined us. We were just a handful of men then: John, Much the miller’s son, Owain and a dozen or so others. Waylaying rich travellers, mainly. I used to invite them to dinner in the forest, and then make them pay for the privilege. It was just a childish game, really. We were on the move all the time in Sherwood, dodging the Sheriff’s men, fearful that a decent-sized company of soldiers would find us. No more than a pitiful band of wandering footpads. I realised that I needed some real money to build the organisation I wanted; I needed, well ... respect from the villages. I wanted to do something big. I needed to do something spectacular. So John and I cooked up a plan.’

  He shrugged off his cloak, went over to the woodpi
le and threw another branch on the fire. Sitting down again, and extending his hands to the blaze, he continued: ‘We decided to rob the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the Royal Forests himself, in his own castle.’ Through the leaping flames I could see his face clearly: he was smiling with pleasure at the thought, his silver eyes shining in the darkness.

  ‘There was to be a sword-play competition at the Nottingham Fair, open to all, and we decided that John should enter, calling himself ... what was it? ... something preposterous, something woody ... Greenleaf, I think. That’s it. Reynald Greenleaf, was to be his name. He was to try and get himself noticed by Sir Ralph Murdac and get himself taken on as sergeant-at-arms in the castle. Well, you know John, he won the contest easily, even killing his opponent in the final round. And Murdac swiftly took John into his employment.’

  I was fascinated. I had never heard this tale before. Robin rummaged in the food sack and brought out the remains of the beef joint. He cut off a thin, delicate slice, and popped it in his mouth. I took another drink from the wine skin. ‘It wasn’t a subtle plan; the robbery,’ said Robin, chewing slowly. ‘We were after Murdac’s dining silver; the best goblets, cups and plates, mazers, bowls and platters that he used on feast days in his hall. And we heard that they were kept in a locked room off the kitchen.

  ‘John waited three days, playing the part of a loyal man-at-arms, and after midnight on the third day he went down to the kitchen, broke open the door of the store and filled a sack with the silver plate. Halfway through, he was discovered by the head cook, a huge man, and almost as strong as John himself. Apparently, they had an almighty set-to in the kitchen, pots and pans flying everywhere, and they beat each other to bloody steak. Must have made a hell of a racket. Eventually, John managed to knock him out and get away with the sack of clanking metal. But it wasn’t a smooth escape; the disturbance made by the fight in the kitchen had roused the castle and when John galloped out of Nottingham on a stolen horse, he was followed by Sir Ralph Murdac and a score of his men-at-arms, buzzing like angry wasps, hastily dressed and only half-armed.’ Robin poked the fire with a thin stick, setting his makeshift poker alight. He waved it in the air to extinguish the blue flames.

  ‘Of course, we were waiting for John in the forest, and when Murdac’s half-dressed soldiers turned up, we shot them to pieces with our bows from dense cover. They didn’t stand a chance. The soldiers charged into a hail of arrows and, without proper armour, in three heartbeats there were a dozen empty saddles and a litter trail of men bleeding, cursing and dying on the forest floor. The rest had to run for it.’

  He stopped for a moment. ‘But they left Ralph Murdac behind.’

  ‘So you captured the Sheriff himself?’

  ‘Yes, we had him, and he was wounded, not badly, just an arrow in the flesh of his left arm. But his horse had been pierced by a couple of shafts and had thrown him. He was terrified: surrounded by a pack of bloodthirsty outlaws, men he would have hanged on sight if he had caught them in Nottingham; his own men wounded and dying around him, the rest fled. He was on his knees, pleading for his life, tears absolutely running down his face. I’ll never forget the sight of someone so ... lost.’

  ‘The men thought it was funny, of course - the high and mighty Sheriff, begging for our mercy. I had my sword drawn and I was preparing to dispatch him, when Tuck intervened. And in my youthful weakness, I listened to him. ‘Make him swear, on the Cross, that he will not molest us in future,’ said Tuck. ‘Make him swear, by all that is holy, that he will pay a ransom,’ he insisted, ‘and spare your soul another black stain.’

  ‘I was soft then, a fool, and I listened to Tuck’s plea. So Murdac swore a great oath that he would not pursue us in the forest, that we outlaws might do as we chose in Sherwood. He promised to deliver a ransom to the very spot he was kneeling on in three days’ time, I forget how much now, but a decent sum; twenty marks, I think. And, being the idiot that I was then, I let him go.’

  Robin stabbed at the fire again with the stick. ‘He never paid up, of course. Perhaps he had intended to do so when he was begging for his life but, once he was snug at home in Nottingham Castle, there was no chance he was going to part with his silver to an outlaw. But, strangely, he did leave us alone, for a year or more, and it gave me more than enough time to build up my strength. All manner of people came to join me. I was made, then, with the common people. The robbery was a success, in that aspect. I had their attention, and their respect.’

  ‘If you had killed Murdac, it would have brought the wrath of the King down upon you,’ I said. ‘Henry would have come north with all his might and crushed you like an insect,’

  ‘Yes, there is that,’ conceded Robin, ‘but I wish I had slit the little poison-toad’s throat nonetheless.’

  The next day, by the early afternoon, we were walking our horses through the low arch of Micklegate Bar - with its gruesome array of the severed heads of criminals set on spikes on top - and into York. It was my first visit to this great northern town, and I was most curious to see the place. As we rode down the centre of wide street to the old bridge over the River Ouse, I took in the closely packed workshops and houses, the milling citizens, the noise and smells of the streets; there seemed to be a great number of people out of doors, far more than would be abroad in Nottingham at this hour, and many seemed to be agitated about something. There were also, I noticed, many more men-at-arms among the throng that would be usual in a town this size.

  Robin seemed to be reading my thoughts: ‘Sir John Marshal, the Sheriff of Yorkshire, is assembling local contingents here to go on the Great Pilgrimage,’ he noted. ‘You need to mind your manners, Alan, with so many soldiers about. Don’t get into any trouble; don’t provoke anyone to violence.’ As so often when he spoke to me, Robin was half-serious and half-joking.

  Crossing the old bridge over the river, Robin and I moved into single file, and I covered my nose at the stench of the public latrines - wooden shacks that had been set up, their backs extending out over the slow moving brown water so that the townsmen could relieve themselves directly into the Ouse. To my right, a couple of hundred yards away, was the mound and high wooden walls of the King’s Tower, the great keep of York Castle, that glowered over the town as a reminder of the King’s power in the North. On my left, a quarter of a mile away, was the magnificent soaring bulk of the Minster, a huge monument to God’s glory on Earth; and next to it, slightly closer to the river, was the Abbey of St Mary’s, one of the holiest institutions in Yorkshire. Robin I knew had had problems with the Abbot in the past - he had mocked him publicly for his wealth, and robbed his servants as they travelled through Sherwood - and I knew he wanted to avoid the place, if at all possible.

  We headed neither right to the castle nor left to the Minster, but straight up the hill through ranks of squeezed in houses, some of them two or even three storeys high. It was an impressive town. And yet, even though I had never been in York before, I could sense that something was wrong in the place: fellows would scurry about shouting half-heard messages to their fellows; a gang of apprentices crossed our path heading north, and drunkenly singing a song that ended in the chorus ... ‘Ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha, another pint of ale, my boys, ah-ha, ah-ah, ah-ha, and then the Jew shall die, my boys, ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha ...’ It seemed that a great many people were walking up the road with us and towards the market; a tide of humanity all moving in the same direction.

  I felt uneasy and glanced at Robin; he too was frowning but we pushed on up the hill until a space opened up to our left and, by the ripe smell of rotting meat, I knew we were passing the town’s shambles. Robin put a hand on my arm and we reined in at the entrance to the meat market. In a wide space, lined with rough stalls selling bloody cuts of pork and beef, and with row upon row of dead chickens hanging by their feet, a huge crowd had formed. Standing on a box at the back of the market, a short, middle-aged man dressed in a robe like that of a monk - except that it was a grubby off-white colour, instead of t
he usual brown - was haranguing the multitude. As Robin and I stopped to listen, more and more townspeople joined the throng in front of the monk, straining to hear his message: it soon became clear that his theme was the Great Pilgrimage, and the urgent need to free the Holy Land.

  ‘... and yet their beasts continue to defile our Holy places; the unbelievers’ cattle shitting on the very floors of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre itself; their Satan-black slaves pissing in the font where many a devout Christian babe has been baptised. How long, O Lord, how long will you suffer these Saracen desecrators to live? Where is the strong right arm of the Christian faith? Where is the army of the righteous who will scrub the Holy Land clean of these filthy, Christ-denying wretches?

  ‘I tell you, brothers: the great men of the land are doing their part; even our good King Richard has made his solemn vow to recapture Jerusalem and rid it of these unbelieving lice that swarm on the very stones where Christ preached his blessed ministry. And all the great lords of England and France, too, are doing their part to rid the world of the foul corruption of the paynim: our noble Sheriff, Sir John Marshal, brother to Christendom’s greatest knight, William the Marshal, is summoning his men, brave knights from across the county of Yorkshire, to cross the seas and vanquish these stinking hordes of the Devil.’

  The crowd was cheering by now; wrapped up in the white priest’s words. ‘But what can I do, you ask; how can I play my part in this great endeavour to rid the world of sin and faithlessness? What can I do?’ The white monk paused, searching the crowd with his eyes. ‘I am no great knight, nor lord nor king, you say. I am but a humble man, a good Christian but no sword-wielding horse-warrior, with wide lands and great estates. And to you I say this: the Devil is among you! Here! Today! In this very town!’ There was a collective hiss from the crowd. The white monk held out his arm, index finger extended and he moved it slowly over the crowd. For some strange reason, it was difficult not to follow the pointing finger with your eyes.